


Without a Sound

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Guilty Pleasures, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: It smelled like Aziraphale’s cologne, and Crowley’s headspun.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 188
Collections: Guess the Author: Round 2





	Without a Sound

Sometimes, Crowley thinks Aziraphale can’t possibly have done it on purpose.

See - they were both drunk that night, that’s the thing. Six sheets to the wind. Aziraphale spilled wine on himself and went to Crowley’s bathroom to clean up. He could have snapped his fingers and miracled the wine away, but when so much alcohol is involved neither of them trust themselves with miracles, not even minor ones.

So Aziraphale hobbled to the bathroom and came back a little while later with a wet spot on his chest, the purple-red stain of wine over his heart spread out like watercolour on canvas. Crowley stared at it for longer than is polite, for sure.

When the angel left, later that night, Crowley went to take a shower. And there it was - Aziraphale’s undershirt, casually hanging on the edge of the sink, as if it wasn’t something precious, something dear. Crowley cradled it in his hands, observing the wine stain marring the white fabric. He ran his fingers piously over the soft fabric. It was the softest thing he’d ever touched. To his face, of course, he’d made fun of Aziraphale for wearing an undershirt - and a short-sleeved one at that - but here, in secret, he could hold on to it, snap the wine away, lift it towards his face.

It smelled like Aziraphale’s cologne, and Crowley’s head _spun_.

* * *

Sometimes Crowley thinks Aziraphale must have done it on purpose. The angel is too careful, too mindful of his possessions. He wouldn’t just forget his shirt in Crowley’s bathroom, would he? And if he gave it to Crowley on purpose - what did he mean by it? It’s brilliant, the plausible deniability of it all - and its perfection gives it away as something meticulously planned. It can’t be a coincidence.

Right?

In the daylight, Crowley would deny with every ounce of his being that he’s picked up the habit of sleeping in the angel’s shirt. He’d vehemently refuse to admit he’s been curling up under the covers, wearing nothing but The Shirt, slowly caressing himself, breath hitching in his throat.

His fingers are wrong. Too long, too bony. His nails are too sharp. His hands - definitely not as gentle as Aziraphale’s would be.

It’s not pathetic if nobody knows about it. And nobody will ever know how easy it is to forget he’s not alone in his bed. How easy it is to remember the angel’s smell that’s long gone from the shirt, to reach out with a trembling hand and grab his own thigh, nails pressing into the flesh. How he lies to himself, tells himself _he won’t do it, not tonight_. He gradually slips into _maybe he will do it, but nobody will know about it, which is the same as not doing it at all, isn’t it?_

(It isn’t. He knows it isn’t.)

He bites hard into his bottom lip as he strokes himself. If nothing else, he won’t make a sound.

No one has to know. No one will never know.

* * *

But there are evenings - when Aziraphale, tipsy or blind drunk, carefully rolls up his sleeves before picking up a cocoa-dusted truffle, or smooths down his cashmere trousers so that they don’t crease when he sits down.

And he looks at Crowley, and he smiles.


End file.
